The Feeder

by Gayle Siebert

  “I bet he always meant it,” Lita says, and nods her head in the direction of the doors leading out onto the deck. “Just like holding you out over that rail. One of those times, he might very well drop you.”

  “Yeah, he meant it,” Nullah continues. “His first wife drowned, all right, but the cops were suspicious. It’s still an open case, and he’s a person of interest.”

  “Person of interest?”

  “Yeah. They think he did it. Just took her for a boat ride like he planned to do with you. They just didn’t have enough to charge him.” Nullah takes a long swallow of his beer and sets the bottle on the coffee table. “I imagine he’d say you fell overboard in the rough weather and he couldn’t find you. It’s dark, and in the waves that’re out there now? You have no idea how hard it would be to find someone.”

  I take a couple of breaths and swirl the last bit of wine around in the glass. If I go to jail and Lita doesn’t take Jennifer, where will she go? To Ontario, to live with my mother? That bitter old woman? I didn’t want to live with her twenty years ago, I don’t think she’s gotten nicer since, and now she’s an invalid besides. So, into foster care.

  And Derek was a suspect in his first wife’s death? When I think about the convincing act he put on in the doctor’s office I realize how easily he could play the part of the distraught husband.

  Maybe Nullah’s right. There’s what’s legal, and there’s what right. I swallow the rest of my wine. “Okay,” I say. “How do we get him in the water?”

  Twenty-nine

  Lita

  IT’S SURPRISING HOW heavy Derek is. The old expression “dead weight” takes on new meaning. Nullah and I lift him off the chair and Carly pulls it out from under him. The plan is to carry him through the family room and out onto the patio, then around to the front of the house and down the steps to the dock. It’s definitely easier said than done. We want to limit Carly’s involvement as much as possible, but even with Nullah carrying him for the most part, my little effort is causing me to reconsider the plan.

  “I have to put him down,” I say before we’re even out of the kitchen, and I drop his legs. Nullah, who’s holding him around his chest, lets him slide to the floor.

  Derek groans.

  I hear Carly’s scream over my own. “He’s waking up!” I shriek.

  “No, babe,” Nullah says, “that’s just the air coming out of his lungs because we moved him. Okay?”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Carly and I exchange glances. Nullah says, “Really, Carly. Lita. It’s common and natural.”

  “How do you know?” I ask. Then I realize there may be dark secrets in his past I’d rather not know about. “Forget I asked.”

  He looks puzzled, then says, “I was an auxiliary cop in New South Wales, remember? First responder…”

  Remember? I’m sure he’s never mentioned it before. I wonder why not, and if it’s really true. It must be. Nullah doesn’t lie.

  “Oh,” Carly says.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” Nullah asks me. “You give up already?”

  “Yeah. Um. His legs are heavy.”

  “He must spend quite a bit of time on the leg machines,” Nullah suggests.

  “I can help,” Carly offers, and comes to stand next to me. “But how about this. We drop him off the deck, and then it’s just a downhill drag from there.”

  “Drop him off the deck? It’s…”

  “It won’t hurt him, Lita,” she says.

  “But he might get banged up. That might be suspicious, if he was supposed to have drowned or, er, had a heart attack and fell into the water.”

  “Good point,” she admits. Now that she’s quit crying, it’s as if her mind is fully engaged again and she’s a dispassionate observer. You’d almost think she was ordering pizza, while I think I might need Gravol even though I’m on dry land.

  “He could get banged up on rocks in the water,” Nullah says. “And if he’s in the water for long enough before he’s found, there won’t be much…”

  “There’ll be predation,” Carly agrees, nodding as she cuts off the rest of his comment.

  “Sure. He might get eaten. But what if he isn’t? What if they start looking around here? You know those forensics guys find the most obscure, tiny bits of evidence. A hair here. A drop of blood there. I’ve seen how rough it is out in front there. You saw it coming up here tonight, Nullah. Impossible to make sure there’s no, er, nothing incriminating in that…”

  “Okay,” Nullah says, “we wrap him up. You got a tarp, Carly?”

  “Tarp? Oh, I don’t know.” She chews her bottom lip as she thinks about it. “No tarp, but how about the table cover? The vinyl cover on the patio table?”

  “How big is it?” Nullah asks.

  “Well, the table is only about three feet across, but the cover goes right to the ground all around it.”

  “Should do, then,” Nullah says.

  “I’ll go get it,” I offer, and sprint for the patio door. Locked.

  Carly comes up beside me with keys, and unlocks it. I push out into the rain and get the cover off the table.

  “It’s wet,” I say.

  “At least it’s not dirty,” Carly says.

  “Spread it out on the laminate,” Nullah says, indicating the area between the kitchen table and the cabinets.

  I take the cover and lay it out as instructed. Then, between the three of us, we put Derek in the middle of it and fold the vinyl up over him.

  “Hey, I think we should unzip him before we do that,” Carly says.

  “You’re right,” I agree. I bend over him, clenching my teeth and trying not to gag at the smell of urine as I slide his fly open.

  “Okay?” Nullah asks.

  “Yeah. Done,” I say.

  “Pull his dick out.”

  “I am not touching his dick!” I choke as my gorge rises, barely able to keep it down.

  “I’ll do it,” Carly offers. She bends over him and sticks her hand into his pants, coming out with his penis. “He’s got an erection!” she exclaims.

  “Priapism. Also common,” Nullah says. He grabs a couple of handfuls of vinyl, tugs, and the whole thing including Derek’s body slides easily across the floor. He holds up at the door.

  “Okay. You girls lift the far end, and then I think once we’re outside, Lita and I can take over,” Nullah says. “You sure his wallet’s in his pocket? And his cellphone? What about paperwork for the new boat?”

  “Yes, all set. I guess so, anyway. I’m sure he’s got everything organized.”

  “I think maybe we should put his laptop on the boat, too,” I say.

  “Oh, you’re right! He doesn’t go anywhere without it,” Carly says. “I’ll get it.” She trots off toward Derek’s study and in a couple of minutes, is back with the laptop bag.

  “Okay,” Nullah says, “so are you sure you’re going to be okay on your own? We won’t be back until tomorrow. Er, later today. You’re going to phone Lita, say about nine? Tell her Derek’s not home and can she meet you for brunch?”

  “Yes. We’re going to meet at the café. I’ll tell my friends I’ve been doing fine since I quit working there. I’ll say that Derek has gone to get a new boat. I’ll buy a couple of pieces of cheesecake or something, enough for two people for dessert. Make a point of saying it’s for when he gets home later.” She looks at Nullah, gives a little nod, and says, “I won’t forget.”

  “And if anyone points out that the weather’s pretty bad for him to be coming home in the boat?”

  “I say he might stay over another night, and also that he mentioned the storm would give the new boat a really serious sea trial,” Carly says. “I know what to do, Nullah.”

  I tell Nullah, “she knows what to do, baby.”

  I mean it, too. I never would’ve imagined her capable of all the planning and deception that went into killing Derek, or that she could go through with it. I mean, it’s a terrible thing to do and w
hen I wanted her to get rid of him I didn’t have murder in mind, but I can’t help admiring her for it. The only flaw in her plan was thinking I’d take that obnoxious child. But I suppose if she went to prison and it was between me taking her and having her go into foster care, I’d probably cave. Arghh! Just the thought makes me cringe! Good motivation to do everything possible to make sure she gets away with it.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell her, and take the laptop bag from her. I hoist the strap over my shoulder crossbody style and give her one last hug before Nullah and I head out into the dark and stormy night again.

  We start off around the house heading for the trail, with Nullah walking backwards as he tugs the cover, and me doing my part at Derek’s feet, lifting as best I can to make dragging him easier.

  When we get to the trailhead, Nullah stops up and says, “I’m going to turn around. I can’t back all the way down to the dock. It’s downhill now, so you don’t need to lift that end. Just come up beside me with the flashlight.”

  I do as he asks. If anything it’s darker and the storm’s worse now than when we came. All we need is lightning and it would be full on horror story. But as difficult it makes this whole project, the storm is actually a good thing. In the unlikely event the cops should happen to come down here, the lashing rain will cover up any drag marks.

  It also means it’s unlikely there will be another boat out on the water. If there is, we’ll have to continue a lot further south than planned, at the risk of not getting it done before dawn. We really don’t want to be doing this in daylight. Too many eyes on too many other boats, plus a lot of these waterfront homes have telescopes and binoculars and nosey people who have nothing better to do on a Sunday morning than watch the channel.

  It seems to take forever, but we make it down the path and out onto the dock in under ten minutes and without incident. Nullah drops the body next to Derek’s boat and climbs over onto it, losing his balance for a second as the boat heaves. The wharf is, of course, floating so it’s heaving, too. I toss the laptop bag onto Derek’s boat, dig the Gravol out of my pocket and pop a couple, feel the little blister pack for more. Just two left. Why didn’t I buy more when I had the chance? But then, they were twice the drug store price and I planned to be sound asleep on the boat in Silva Bay long before now with only a short haul back to put our boat away in the morning. There should have been plenty. Turns out it was a lousy time to be cheap! This night can’t end soon enough to suit me, but we still have a couple of hours on the water ahead of us.

  Nullah reaches across, grabs one of Derek’s arms, and pulls. The boat and wharf heave just as he does that. With an extra tug, Derek’s body slides over the gunwale and hits the deck at his feet with a thud.

  “Toss that on our boat, babe,” Nullah says, pointing at the table cover. I fold it into an untidy bundle and flip it up onto the rear deck. Then I go to untie the rear mooring line of Derek’s boat and toss it to Nullah, who carefully coils it and lays it on the deck. He pulls up the bumpers, then hurriedly climbs back up on the dock.

  The longer we’re exposed on the wharf like this the more risk there is of us being noticed. The probability is minimal given the storm, but better plans than ours have been torpedoed by small details.

  “Douse the light as soon as you can,” he says, “and let’s get this done.” He gets on his boat and goes to the helm to start the engines while I cast off the mooring lines.

  “Okay,” I call out, and the boat starts away from the dock. He pilots it around to the other side of the dock and backs up to Derek’s boat; I loose its bowline from the dock cleat and pass it to him. He snubs it on the ladder by the swim grid, and reaches out to take my hand and help me aboard. So far so good, but the really tricky part of the plan is still ahead.

  Nullah steers the boat away from the dock, heading out to the middle of the channel with Derek’s boat lurching through the waves a safe distance behind us.

  We’re underway for ten minutes when instruments show we’ve reached a deep part of the channel.

  “We’re clear of DeCourcy Island now. Not much further to open water,” Nullah says, and lets the engines idle. Much as we’d rather not announce our presence with running lights, we can’t do what we need to in the dark, so Nullah turns on the stern light.

  I push the bumpers over and Nullah goes astern to pull Derek’s boat up close. He attaches a second rope, unties the tow rope and pulls the smaller boat alongside, walking along the gunwale to snub the tow rope to the front handrail while I wrap the second rope to another cleat. With the two boats rafted together, Nullah climbs onto the gunwale, takes the step down to the gunwale on Derek’s much smaller boat and hops onto the deck. He wastes no time in hoisting Derek’s body onto the starboard gunwale, lifts his legs, and with a shove, Derek Fucking Wilton disappears over the side.

  So far so good. The most dangerous part of the operation is over. If we’re discovered now, we’ll say we came across Derek’s boat just drifting and no one was aboard. Why were we out on the water in this storm? Stupid, I guess. We’d definitely rather get far away from Derek’s boat and not have to come up with a more believable reason.

  Now Nullah climbs back along the gunwale to the bow, where he unties the tow rope and tosses it to me. Derek’s boat immediately swings with the current and its stern bumps up against our boat, jostling Nullah as he’s making his way back. He leans forward with both hands on the cabin roof until he’s got his balance again, and continues. I breathe a sigh of relief when he makes it to the aft deck.

  I fix the tow rope to the starboard cleat on our boat and hand him the end. He loops it through the port handrail on Derek’s boat and hands the end back to me. I take two loops around our handrail and hold on tight while Nullah unties our second rope. Then he goes to start the motor.

  Of course it doesn’t start. Nullah is cursing under his breath as the motor coughs and sputters but refuses to keep running. I hear myself sigh. Nullah goes to the stern and follows the fuel line from the motor to where it feeds through an opening in a bench. He flips the top of the bench up to reveal a gas can. He jiggles it. “Just about fuckin’ empty,” he tells me. “I hope he didn’t have another can in the garage or somewhere that he was planning to bring.”

  He pulls his flashlight out of his pocket and shines a beam of light into the compartment. There’s a second gas can further in, and it’s full.

  “Thank Christ,” he mutters. He switches the fuel line over to the fresh can and tries to start the motor again. It coughs and dies.

  If the engine doesn’t start soon, we may have to leave it at that. The longer we’re out here, the more chance there is of other boaters coming along. Sure, it’s stormy, but Nullah says we’re on a commercial route and there might be marine traffic because boats typically congregate at the south end of Dodd Narrows waiting for the tide to go through. The favourable tide is in two hours. We have to get Derek’s boat away, and soon. Two boats so close together would be unusual enough to attract interest and the last thing we need is for some well-meaning member of the public coming over to see if we need help. Plus we have to go through the Narrows on the favourable tide ourselves, whether that engine starts or not.

  The engine gives one last cough and roars to life. I breathe a sigh of relief. Nullah puts Derek’s boat in gear and hurries to its stern. I reach across to grab his arm just in case, but he makes the leap onto our boat no problem.

  “Okay,” he says, “let’er go!”

  He takes the rope from me and lets the line slacken and feed off the rail until Derek’s boat is free and is heading away into the storm, the engine racing with each wave that’s high enough to lift the prop out of the water. In moments it’s far enough away we can’t hear more than a dull growl over the sound of the storm, and then nothing. I coil up the ropes while Nullah goes to the helm, puts the boat in gear, and we head north.

  When we’re well away, he turns on our running lights and relaxes against the back of his chair. I rea
lize that while I was nervous watching him as he did what he had to and he seemed confident and calm doing it, it must have been a terrifying experience for him.

  “Dunno how long it’ll keep heading into the storm,” he says, “glad that’s over.”

  “Fucking glad it’s over,” I agree. After a moment, I ask, “did he, er, his body, um, sink right away?”

  “Yeah.”

  When we were hatching this disposal plan, we discussed the fact bodies are sometimes never found. Sometimes they float for a while because of air in the lungs, but they can also sink to the bottom and stay there for days and even weeks if the water’s cold. With luck, that’s what will happen to Derek, and we’re hoping currents carry him south before he’s bloated enough to bob up and wash ashore or be found at sea by a boater.

  Sometimes they’re all or partially eaten. Over the past decade or so there have been those feet, still inside shoes, washing up on shore up and down the coast. Never in pairs. The people they once belonged to have seldom been identified.

  As I’m running through all of this in my mind for the hundredth time, I realize disembodied feet are nothing compared to the horror of what we’ve just done. My stomach has been threatening to turn itself inside out for hours. Gravol is no match for this! I race to lean over the side and vomit, my stomach squeezing again and again until it’s painful. Then I turn my face up to the rain and let it wash over me, cold and stinging and very welcome.

  When I come back to the mate’s chair, Nullah reaches across and grips my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  “Remember that discussion we had a few months ago about whether or not you needed to learn how to handle the boat?”

  Now? He’s going to bring that up now? I nod.

  “If I fell in the chuck just then, I’d be very glad to know you could bring the boat back and fish me out.” He actually laughs like we we’re off on a grand adventure, and says, “you’re a decent first mate, babe. I think I’ll keep you.”

  I don’t trust myself to speak. I dig out the last two Gravol tablets and swallow them. If he thinks this was fun, I’m beginning to wonder if he has a little more in common with his biker friends than I thought.